


Proof of Life

by Wilusa



Series: The Road Less Likely [2]
Category: Carnivale
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilusa/pseuds/Wilusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Dead of Night," but can work as a standalone. One Avatar sets out to learn another's fate...and makes a grim discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.

_It's not often_ , Hack Scudder reflected, _that a man gets to look down into what_ _ **was**_ _his own grave._

He'd been sitting beside the hole in the ground all night, resolutely not training his flashlight on it. But in the harsh morning light, he had to admit it held a certain morbid fascination.

 _I wonder if Ben will be surprised that I've stayed here so long, waiting for him?_

He tried to ignore the inner murmur that he knew was the voice of reason. The one that kept saying, _Ben won't be coming back. Ben is dead._ His son had expected to be dead by now, but Hack refused to believe it.

For the umpteenth time, he reread the note that had been in his hand when he woke, lying next to the grave.

 _Pa,_

 _You may never read this, but if you do you may be confused. Here's what happened. Crowe killed you, and him or his goons buried you near where he done it. I dug you up._

 _Its my fault he was able to kill you. I didn't mean it, but I lead Stroud to you and then I couldn't catch up with him in time to save you. I'm sorry._

 _I aim to kill Crowe, and I'll try to use the killing to bring you back to life. It may not work, because you were dead too long or because he cut your head off or because I meant to kill him anyway. But I hope it will work. I pray it will._

 _If you're reading this I'll most likely be dead myself. I figure Crowe's followers will take me out soon as I kill him. Do not kill anyone else to bring me back! Killing is wrong. It's OK for me to kill Crowe because he's the usher made flesh and has to be unmade, but other wise it's a sin. So do not try to bring me back. I forbid it. _

_Your son,_

 _Ben_

Hack shook his head in bemusement at Ben's having blamed himself. As he saw it, all the blame was his. _I brought on this crisis, when I left Lucius Belyakov's trailer without giving myself time to recover from the psychic battering I'd taken..._

x

x

x

He still believed Belyakov had tried to kill him that night, and almost succeeded.

Ever since Ben had joined Carnivale, Hack had believed the only reason Belyakov hadn't drained him to restore his own health - an atrocity that would have left Ben dead or horribly maimed - was that he knew Hack would avenge him. He believed Belyakov also assumed Ben wouldn't tolerate an attack on his father.

Belyakov had convinced Ben that he only wanted to see Hack in order to show him visions he'd had, which he believed would induce Hack to support them against his own Dark Prince - and if Hack agreed to give them the Prince's name, to determine, without harming him, whether he was telling the truth. He'd pointed out that even if Hack felt no loyalty to his monstrously evil Prince, he might give a false name in a misguided attempt to protect his son, by keeping him from finding and fighting his opponent. Belyakov, with his more developed powers, would be better able than Ben to distinguish fact from falsehood. And if they knew Hack had lied, Ben wouldn't have to waste time following up on the false lead.

Hack had been sure the Russian secretly planned to drain and kill him (thus restoring his own health), then immediately turn on Ben and kill _him_ before he'd recovered from the shock of the betrayal. He'd decided to go along with what Ben wanted, and get the confrontation over with. But he'd feigned extreme timidity and helplessness, making Ben promise to protect him if he was attacked. That was a ploy to assure that the youth wouldn't be caught by surprise as Belyakov planned. He'd hoped it would be Belyakov who'd be caught by surprise, so Ben would receive a boon when he killed him.

Could Hack have bested Belyakov, if he'd unleashed his own Avataric powers the instant the Russian attacked him? Perhaps. He'd anticipated the attack; Belyakov did not, as he'd expected, have the advantage of surprise. Hack had reacted as he did to force Ben to intervene. But he thought the odds truly would have been against him, because his powers were rusty from disuse, while Belyakov had embraced his and doubtless made frequent use of them. He'd hoped to survive, to keep that demon Prince - Belyakov's son Alexei - from becoming Prophet. But what mattered most was that Ben survive, and attain his own Prophethood - hopefully, with a boon.

In the end, it had appeared Belyakov was giving Ben the boon voluntarily. Hack found that puzzling, but he assumed the man must have had a benevolent impulse in his last moments of life.

It had never occurred to him that Belyakov might have staged the fight to incite Ben to kill him.

x

x

x

When Hack staggered out of that trailer, his intent had been to put as much distance as possible between himself and Ben - getting a quick start, before Ben could snap back from the shock _he'd_ experienced and try to stop him. That had been his plan all along, assuming he survived the encounter with Belyakov. He knew the thug they'd evaded that afternoon was targeting him, didn't grasp Ben's importance. He'd wanted to protect his son by leading the thug away from him. But in his impaired state, he'd been captured; and Ben, who'd raced after them, had wound up in a fight to the death with the Usher.

 _Have I ever done anything right?_ he thought bitterly. _In my entire life?_

 _But Ben won! It was too soon, he was too young - but against all odds, he **won**. He must have, because his note makes clear he wouldn't have killed anyone else to restore me to life._

 _I can't believe that after he'd defeated the Usher, a just God would let him be killed by some ignorant mob!_

 _But...is God just?_

 _I've sometimes wondered whether He even exists._

Hack had convinced himself Ben was alive - and would return to the burial site, if only because the revival attempt might have failed. Surely, if that had been the case, he would have wanted to rebury his father's body.

As the night dragged on, he'd told himself Ben had left his only flashlight with him, and hadn't been able to find another. _He'll come after daybreak. Just stay put, wait for him._

But the sun had been up for hours now.

He'd reached out repeatedly, trying to touch the youth's mind as he'd done so often before. He found...nothing.

The voice of reason said bluntly, _He's either dead or comatose._

He refused to listen. _No! He's become a Prophet - he may have learned to create psychic barriers I can't detect._

He could explain away his failure to make contact. But by now, he was being forced to acknowledge that Ben wasn't coming, and think of a reason he could live with.

 _Of course he isn't coming. It was foolish of me to believe he would._

 _He didn't restore me to life out of love for me. He did it because he felt responsible for my death. He would have done the same if the person for whose death he blamed himself was a total stranger._

 _He felt an obligation toward me, and he fulfilled it, by focusing on the idea of reviving me as he killed the Usher. At that point he'd done all he could. Whether I'd actually come back to life was of no concern to him, nor should it have been._

That didn't exactly jibe with Ben's note. ( _"I hope it will work. I pray it will."_ ) And Hack couldn't quite picture his son leaving even a stranger's decomposing body to rot. But if he didn't let himself think too much, the explanation sufficed.

It was better than "dead or comatose."

x

x

x

For the first time, he began to consider getting up and walking away.

He had no idea where he was. Having been transported while he was drugged, he didn't even know what state he was in. For that matter, the name "Crowe" would have meant nothing to him if Ben's note hadn't made clear it was an alias used by the Usher, Alexei Belyakov. If he'd been buried near where Alexei killed him, he should be fairly close to a road. But he didn't know in what direction it lay, or how close he was to built-up areas in other directions.

He didn't know how long he'd been dead. But any decomposition had been reversed, and his once-severed head was as firmly attached as ever. His probing fingers had found a scar that circled his neck, but there was no pain. And if Alexei had received "all his knowledge and power" via a taken-by-surprise boon, it must have been a copying rather than a draining; either that, or Alexei's own death had reversed it. He felt like his old self.

 _If I leave here, where should I go?_

His life had been restored, but it no longer had a purpose. For the last decade, he'd clung to that life solely to deny Alexei the powers of a Prophet, and to protect Ben - to whatever extent he could - from both Belyakovs, father and son. Now he was adrift and rudderless.

 _Or maybe not._

He looked down at the note he still held in his hands. Lovingly ran a finger over it, tracing some of the letters.

 _My only child's handwriting. I'm seeing it for the first time. And he's nineteen years old!_

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

 _I do have one purpose left in life. I've just been refusing to face it._

 _I have to stop lying to myself about Ben, and find out what's happened to him. Whether he's alive or dead._

His eyes misted over as he reread the last sentences of the note.

 _" Do not kill anyone else to bring me back! Killing is wrong. It's OK for me to kill Crowe because he's the usher made flesh and has to be unmade, but other wise it's a sin. So do not try to bring me back. I forbid it."_

 _No, if he's gone, I can't bring him back. I can't go against a wish - a command - as clear as this._

 _Given his belief about killing, I can't even avenge him._

 _But maybe, if he hasn't ascended to Heaven, I can assure him a decent burial._

 _And maybe, just maybe, I really will find him alive, and not too grown-up to need a father._

He wasn't deluding himself that it would be easy. He'd have to make his way to wherever Ben had fought Alexei; and if Alexei's loyalists still controlled the area, he might accomplish nothing more than getting himself killed. Again.

But he had to try.

He tucked the precious note in the least grimy of his pockets. Then he got to his feet, and reluctantly - as always - summoned up an Avatar's most distinctive power. Closing his eyes, shutting out all distractions, he turned in a slow circle as he let himself feel, rather than hear, a faint, insectile buzzing. It typically led the Avatar to something of interest - but not always what he would have chosen.

He picked the direction indicated by the buzzing, and started to hike.

By the time he broke through a thicket onto the unpleasantly familiar road, he had a new problem to worry about.


	2. Chapter 2

Samson had always regretted that his small size kept him from driving one of Carnivale's trucks. Today he was thankful for the excuse to let Osgood do the driving...because his eyes kept filling up with tears.

 _The Usher is dead. So why are we left feelin' this is anythin' but a victory?_

Unfortunately, he had to be in the lead truck, to make decisions on direction when they'd come to forks in the road. But they were only minutes out of New Canaan, and he was already agonizing over Ruthie, alone in the Management trailer with a possibly dying Ben Hawkins.

The plan was that if there was any change in Hawkins' condition, Ruthie would pound on the wall to get the attention of the truck driver pulling the trailer, and he'd honk his horn to bring the convoy to a stop. Unless, of course, the "change" was that Ben had come to, and he instructed her not to halt the convoy! It was understood that if he was conscious and lucid, he was the boss.

But Samson thought it more likely Ben would die in Ruthie's arms. And Ruthie, hopelessly in love with him, would be destroyed.

 _Why the hell didn't I leave him be_ , he chided himself, _let him do things his own way? If I hadn't got him to try that damn-fool stunt o' healin' folks with Crowe's life-force, he woulda assassinated the bastard, plain an' simple. An' yeah, Crowe's henchmen woulda killed him. But he expected to die, an' it woulda been quick. Not like this. Ruthie woulda been spared seein' it._

 _An' there wouldn't o' been no innocents killed._

He'd never be able to forget what he'd seen in the healing tent. Wild-eyed adults trampling children in their desperation to escape...blood everywhere, a gusher drenching _him_...Norman Balthus's guts spilling out on the floor while the man was still conscious, trying to gather them up. He didn't know how he'd gotten out alive. But at times, last night and this morning, he'd wished he hadn't.

 _I caused all that._

 _'Course, it wouldn't o' happened if Jonesy hadn't stopped Hawkins from killin' Crowe the night before..._

He shook his head, and cursed himself for having been tempted even momentarily to pin the blame on Jonesy. _Dead now_ , he thought bleakly, _I feel it in my bones. Prob'ly killed tryin' to rescue Sofie, an' her dead too._

 _No, it warn't Jonesy's fault. My guilt goes back farther'n that._

 _It's a sign o' how bad my mistake was that I never had the guts to tell Hawkins what I'd done._

The idea he'd had back in Creed had been good. Better, in fact, than he'd realized - he hadn't expected it to work at all, and it had.

The thug he now knew was named Varlyn Stroud actually had followed his suggestion, turned his attention away from Carnivale, and gone off to look for Scudder's son and his "midget" companion with Daily Brothers.

He'd learned they weren't there, of course. Furious at having been sent on a wild goose chase, he'd torched that inoffensive carnival, destroying the livelihood of a hundred or so people. Samson couldn't shake the suspicion he'd murdered the Dailys.

When Samson named Daily Brothers, he hadn't known either they or Carnivale would be heading for Damascus. But he'd unwittingly steered Stroud in a direction that would bring him right back into contact with Carnivale.

 _Bad as a boomerang. Not to mention takin' him almost to Scudder's door!_

 _When he ran into Hawkins in Creed, Hawkins told him he didn't work for Carnivale. Stroud may o' been suspicious, but Hawkins coulda been hangin' around after hours to hook up with a woman he'd met. When Stroud spotted us again, though, an' saw the same kid with us, he knew for sure he'd found Scudder's son._

 _Givin' him the name of another carnival was good. But why didn't I have the brains to tell him Huggins an' Fisk - the one that'd just gone out o' business? By the time he done some checkin' an' found out they folded, he woulda lost track of us. He couldn't o' done Huggins an' Fisk no harm, an' he might still o' thought their outfit was the one Scudder's son had been with._

What might have happened if Stroud had been nowhere near Damascus? If Scudder hadn't been kidnapped and killed? If Hawkins hadn't had a trail to follow, that led him straight to the Usher?

The Avatars' fight was inevitable, Samson knew. But what if it could have been postponed for a year or two, while Hawkins matured and learned more about his and Crowe's capabilities?

 _I know what woulda happened_ , he thought wretchedly. _He woulda been too wise a man to fall for the crackpot idea I had yesterday. He woulda killed Crowe without no one else bein' harmed. An he'd be safe an' sound, not about to die an' break Ruthie's heart._

His vision was blurry again. So he was caught completely by surprise when Osgood slammed on the brake, screaming, "Omigod! What's _**that?**_ "

x

x

x

Samson had almost fallen off his seat. But he hitched himself up, wiped his eyes - and then, as he looked out the windshield, wiped them again, and yet a third time. "Christ on a crutch," he muttered.

As he gaped at the apparition in the road, other trucks came to screeching halts behind them. There were two loud thuds, and louder curses. He winced. _Damn. I hope this jostlin' ain't finished the job o' killin' Hawkins._

"Wh-what is it?" Osgood's voice slid up the scale as he spoke. He was terrified. "A gh-ghost?"

"I ain't sure," Samson admitted.

A man, apparently, standing in the road. But almost every inch of him was covered with caked-on dirt, dried blood, or a mixture of the two.

Until a few weeks ago, Samson reflected, he wouldn't have recognized the substance that wasn't dirt as blood. The blue blood of an Avataric Prophet...

 _Scudder!_

He was prepared to believe Scudder _was_ a ghost - until the murdered Prophet walked up to the truck, spotted him, and stiffened, eyes widening in disbelief. "Samson?"

Samson had never seen a ghost, but he was willing to bet they didn't show surprise. "Yeah." _Try to sound casual. Good-humored._ "Is that you under all that dirt, Hack?"

He hoped Osgood wouldn't recognize the name as a dead man's, and would calm down enough that the explanation could wait. He himself was sure now that Hawkins had restored his father to life, just as he had Ruthie. _Glad he explained that to me, or I'd be as scared as Osgood._

But Scudder was in no mood for chitchat. He leapt onto the running board and screamed through the window, "Tell me what's happened to Ben!"

Osgood let out a shriek.

"We got him with us," Samson said quickly. Clutching Osgood's jacket to keep him from fleeing, he told Hack, "In bad shape, but he's alive." _I hope._ "Just hold on a minute, an' I'll take you to him."

Then he turned to Osgood, who'd managed to open the driver's side door. Samson didn't know whether he was about to run back and spread panic through the troupe or just hightail it into the woods, but neither prospect was appealing. "Listen up," he said firmly. "This is Hawkins' pa. You've heard he was dead. Truth is, he was. But you know Hawkins ain't like us, right? He can bring the dead back to life. It ain't easy, not somethin' he can do often - but he did bring his pa back. So his pa ain't a ghost, he's just as much alive now as you an' me. Okay?"

"D-does he look like that 'cause he was b-buried?" Osgood had one foot out the door.

"Yeah, I reckon he does." Samson sighed. He could sympathize with the kid. "An' I may as well tell you before you ask, the blue stuff on him is blood. The same weird kind we saw on Hawkins.

"But you've known an' liked Hawkins for a year now, ain't you? His pa ain't no more a danger to us than he is."

After he'd said it, he hoped Osgood wouldn't think too deeply about _that_ statement.

The young roustie pulled his foot back in. He was as white as a sheet. But he said in a dazed voice, "Okay. Yeah. I understand."

It seemed he wasn't going to bolt. So Samson got out of the truck - just in time to deal with a dozen other carnies who were coming up to see why they'd stopped. Forcing himself to put a chummy arm around Scudder's waist, he yelled, "Everythin's all right, folks! I know this guy. He's been in an accident - got all muddied up, but he ain't really hurt. Go back to your trucks, an' be ready to start whenever the lead truck pulls out. May be a few minutes."

To his relief, they retreated without asking any questions. That wasn't like them; they were all still stunned by their experience in New Canaan. Most of the carnies had been inside the healing tent, not during Brother Justin's rampage, but after it. They'd seen the mangled bodies. Seen Hawkins being carried out of the cornfield, frighteningly still. And they knew Jonesy was missing and presumed dead.

Scudder had been bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, hissing in frustration at the delay. Now Samson said quickly, "Okay, c'mon," and led him back toward the Management trailer. The distraught father looked terrible, and smelled worse; the stench was making Samson woozy. _But I guess he smells like any man would who's got dirt an' blood all over him, an ain't had a chance to change his clothes or wash hisself since - well, since we left Damascus._

 _Ugh._

 _At least he don't smell like somethin' dead._

x

x

x

Samson gave a sharp rap on the trailer door, which he knew was locked. "Ruthie? It's me. Open up!"

He heard her footsteps coming from the inner apartment. _How the hell am I gonna explain -_

He didn't get a chance. Ruthie opened the door, looked beyond him - and let out a shriek that put Osgood's to shame.

She stumbled backward. He followed her, knowing Hack would bowl him over if he blocked the doorway. "Ruthie, it ain't -"

She wasn't listening. Pointing, she screamed at him, "Samson! Hack Scudder's ghost is right behind you!"

"No, Ruthie -"

But she ran back through the open half-door of the inner room and flung herself on the floor, where Hawkins still lay prostrate on a mat. Trying to cover his body with her own, she screamed hysterically, "No, Hack! You can't have him! I won't let you take him!"

Samson was frozen in place, stunned. But a frantic Scudder rushed past him. "Oh my God - Ruthie, I'm not a ghost! And I'm not some kind of angel of death come to claim Ben! I want him to live as much as you do!"

 _She's never heard a ghost **speak**_ , Samson remembered...

And then, suddenly, she was on her feet, and she and Scudder were embracing, both wracked by sobs. Samson wasn't sure which of them was holding the other up.

They clung together for a few seconds. Then Ruthie backed off, and Scudder dropped to his knees beside Ben. Keening, grief-stricken - but taking care not to touch him. _'Cause he knows how dirty he is_ , Samson realized, with a bemused shake of his head.

For the moment, Ruthie seemed willing to accept that Hack was alive, and not question it. But later, there'd have to be explanations. What she believed now was that Ben had "healed" her of that snakebite. When she learned he could restore the dead to life - and how it was done - she might well remember the timing of Lodz's disappearance, and put two and two together.

 _But she'll be strong enough to cope with that_ , Samson told himself. _If we ain't lost Hawkins._

The youth still lay silent and motionless. From a distance, Samson couldn't tell whether he was breathing. There was no fresh blood on his bandaged belly; that might be a good sign, indicating the jostling hadn't caused further injury. But his not having been roused by all this commotion was a bad sign.

Samson couldn't take the suspense. "Hack! Is he still alive?"

Scudder needed a few seconds to pull himself together. But then he said in a choked voice, "Yes. Sorry - I thought you knew."

"I wasn't sure."

Scudder settled down to sit on the floor. As Ruthie followed suit, he looked at Samson and said bitterly, "He risked his life to save humanity, and you couldn't spare a bed to put him in?"

It was Samson's turn to say, "Sorry." He offered what he knew was a feeble excuse. "We got rid o' Belyakov's bed weeks ago, an' mine is sized for me. We were rushin' to leave New Canaan, didn't have time to think of a better place to put him."

"Huh." Scudder shrugged that off, and went on to say, "He's in a deep coma. That's why I couldn't pick up any mental activity from a distance. But" - he took Ruthie's hand and squeezed it - "I don't think he's going to die. Not when he's survived this many hours."

She heaved a sigh of relief. A thought was forming in Samson's mind, but Ruthie put it into words before he could. "Hack, can you heal him?"

Samson hadn't been sure a Dark Avatar had that power. But Scudder clearly wasn't surprised by the question. A hand strayed to one of his pockets, and he muttered, "He didn't say I shouldn't do _that_..." Then he looked at Samson and asked, "How exactly was he wounded? Beaten by a mob, shot by Alexei's bodyguards - I mean, Crowe's bodyguards?"

"I understand 'bout the name." In a quick aside, Samson told Ruthie, "Crowe's real name was Alexei Belyakov." Then he explained to Scudder, "It warn't neither o' them things. Him an' Crowe fought in a cornfield. At night, with no one else knowin' exactly where they were. Crowe cut him bad - two slash wounds, his belly an' his left arm - before he got a killin' strike in. We didn't find them till mornin'. I reckon the only reason Hawkins didn't bleed to death was that he'd passed out on top o' Crowe, an' his worst wound was pressin' on Crowe's body."

 _An' all that night, I'd been afraid he might o' been so sure Crowe would die on Colossus that he'd been caught unarmed._ Even now, that memory made him break out in a cold sweat.

Scudder had been shaking his head in disbelief from the moment he heard the word "cornfield."

"My God," he whispered. "The cornfield! I've seen it in nightmares all my life. After Ben was born, I was never sure whether it was in my future or his. But...this is important." He sat up straighter, and Samson got the impression he'd remembered a need for haste. "What sort of weapon did Crowe use? A blade, obviously, but can you describe it?"

Samson grimaced. "I'll never forget it. Some kind o' sickle, scythe - I ain't sure what to call it. But it looked like that thing you see in pictures o' the Grim Reaper."

"Damn! That's what I was afraid of. Just a gardening tool, but it's what he'd used to kill me." Scudder shot an anxious glance at Ruthie. "Uh, sorry..."

"That's okay," she said weakly. "I knew you'd been dead at some point. You're flesh an' blood now, that's all that matters."

"All right." Looking back and forth between them, Scudder said earnestly, "I could perform a healing, but there are reasons why I don't think I should. At least not now.

"To begin with, we'd be stalled here for hours. If either of you doesn't know, healing requires taking life-force from somewhere. To avoid harming humans, I'd have to carry Ben deep into the woods. Actually, several people would be needed to carry him. More time would be lost while they got a safe distance away from Ben and me. And later, still more time while we got together again - because he'd have to be carried back."

Two voices echoed, "Carried _back?_ " Ruthie went on to demand, "Why?"

"That's the next problem. Because Crowe slashed him with a blade that had killed another Avatar, the wounds will never completely heal." Scudder paused to let that sobering revelation sink in. Then he said quietly, "I'd only be able to perform a partial healing. And in the short term, I might not be doing Ben any favor. As it is, he's not suffering. An attempt to heal him might just result in his being conscious - and in agony."

Ruthie gave a soft whimper.

"So I think it will be better if I wait, and not use my powers any time soon unless...unless he really seems about to die."

Samson managed a nod, and Ruthie made a small sound that could be taken for assent.

Scudder wasn't through. "And I think you should get the carnival moving quickly - because I learned something, a few minutes before I met up with you, that made me realize Ben is still in danger. _Extreme_ danger."

"From Crowe's followers?" Samson asked dubiously. Ruthie added, "From the law?"

Scudder shook his head. "Worse, much worse. The source of the danger may or may not be Crowe's base - Canaan, did you call the place? - but since we can't be sure, we should get away from it.

"Samson, I'm going to ask you a question that will sound crazy. Believe me, I know better than anyone else how crazy it is! But...are you absolutely sure Crowe is dead?"

Samson met his gaze without flinching. "Absolutely. I saw him, an' he'd been dead for hours. Rigor mortis had set in. Hell, there was no way I woulda left him alive in that cornfield! I was prepared to kill him myself, if we found him unconscious an' Hawkins in no condition to finish him off."

Scudder nodded. "All right. I didn't really think he could be alive. But that means there must be another explanation of what happened to me. Take a look." He pulled up his right pants leg, displaying a shin that appeared at first glance merely to be as dirty as the rest of him. "Take a close look. I tripped and scraped my leg on a tree stump, drew a little blood."

"Shit," Samson said softly. "The fresh blood is red."

"That's right."

"But..." Samson was puzzled. "When Crowe killed you, he became Prophet. He got the blue blood. So don't it make sense that yours has turned back to red?"

"It would," Scudder acknowledged, "if we were both somehow alive. Normally, when the Prophethood and its special blood pass from one generation to the next, that passage is permanent. If Ben had killed someone else - not Crowe - to restore me to life, Crowe would still be Prophet, and my blood should be red.

"But if I was the only living Dark Avatar, generation notwithstanding, I would have become Prophet again by default."

By now Ruthie looked lost. But Samson felt his own blood drain from his face. "You mean..."

"I mean there's another, younger generation," Scudder said grimly. "A son of Crowe's, maybe a grown man - who could be anywhere, using any name.

"Ben may be maimed for life. And somewhere out there, lying in wait for him, is a new Dark Prophet!"

x

x

x

The End


End file.
